


Room in the Inn

by wildpeace



Series: The Mummy/Daddy/Baby 'Verse [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Baby Skye, Coulson and May would be BAMF parents, Daddy Coulson, F/M, Found Family, Gen, Kidfic, Skye as a kid, Trip is the grandson of Peggy and Gabe, and Skye needs a family, friendships, mama may, mummy/daddy/baby, neighbourhood of awesome avengers with no powers, triplives, until canon says otherwise it is what I will believe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:19:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3130940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildpeace/pseuds/wildpeace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skye is a bundle of dark hair and almond eyes and a mouth that runs a mile a minute.  Phil and May are the foster parents who take her in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just playing around with new characters. Am pretty much a sucker for kid!fic and I love found families, and I have pretty much been screaming MUMMY/DADDY/BABY at every episode of AoS since it started. So I wrote this for fun (and for my ML) but then I liked it so thought I would share. It's fluff. It may have more because I kind of have lots of it in my head, but please enjoy the fluff for now!

Maria calls on the phone after 10 o’clock, which means Melinda knows it’s an emergency without having to even hear the other half of the conversation Phil is having. It’s a request – room at the inn for another little face, another pair of wary eyes – and even though Phil’s lips are saying he’ll check with his wife before agreeing to anything, his face is resonating enthusiasm, hope.

She married him because of that hope. Because he always believes he can fix people if he gets to them in time. She is more of a realist. Some things get so broken they can’t be fixed.

“It’s only for a few weeks,” he tells her. “Maria says the girl’s no trouble, just high energy. They haven’t found a fit for her yet. Want to try her at the Bishops but Kate broke her arm last week. Have to wait ‘til she’s healed up.”

She knows he’s watching her carefully, for a moment of weakness, for a small crack he can work at and worry until she capitulates. When she agreed to the fostering, it was on the understanding that they would have kids for days not weeks, and certainly not months. And broken bones take months to heal, whatever anyone else says; she knows.

“I know you don’t want to,” he finally says, looking not at her face, but at the fingers he has just laced with his own.

“I haven’t said no.” Because really, she can’t, not to him, and not about a little girl who needs a place to stay. She’s broken, but she isn’t heartless. “We’ll need new sheets in the guest room.” Then, “When is she coming?”

“Tomorrow, if I call Maria back.”

“Call her.”

Xxx

Skye is a bundle of dark hair and almond eyes and a mouth that runs a mile a minute.

“Nice pile of bricks,” she starts, following Maria inside with a whistle between her teeth and sneakers that thwack against the hardwood floors due to the hole between toe and sole. “Doesn't smell like soup, that’s a plus. Last couple places I been, they always smelled like soup. And we didn't even *eat* soup. Weird huh?”

When she’s introduced to Phil as Detective Coulson, her eyes go wide and she holds her hands up as though in surrender. “No sticky fingers I swear,” she tells him, though she eyes the cardboard box Maria has set down with something akin to guilt. He wonders how many of the trinkets inside have been ‘found’ rather than bought. Turning to Maria, she fixes the tall woman with a frown. “I don’t know what Roxanne said but Carly gave me those hair-slides. I didn’t take them.”

Maria says nothing, putting a hand on Skye’s shoulders and steering her further into the house. The girl takes in the large sitting room with wide eyes and stuffs her hands in her jeans pockets, as though not knowing what else to do with them, or not wanting to touch the various items on the shelves and coffee tables. When Phil tells her it’s okay if she wants to look, she shakes her head vehemently. “Nuh uh, you break, you buy,” she recites. “And it’s been a few years since my parents gave me allowance so…”

She trails off with a shrug, but her hands stay firmly in her pockets.

Xxx

Melinda comes home to find the two of them sitting at the kitchen table over full bowls of neon orange noodles. Kid food, she recognises. Since Phil’s heart attack she normally doesn’t let him eat it, but they keep it in the cupboards for moments like this; when new kids come, it’s best for them to eat something easy, recognisable, comforting.

Skye regards her around a mouthful of mac and cheese. “Who are you?”

She’s blunt, direct, but Melinda appreciates this more than the timid creatures they normally deal with. “May,” she offers, because only Phil and her mother call her Melinda. “Phil’s wife.”

Skye looks between them, her expression one of simple incredulity. “Really?” It’s enough to make the corners of Melinda’s lips quirk upwards; Phil catches the expression and rolls his eyes at her.

“Really,” May nods. Then sitting down in the empty chair, she nods her head towards their bowls. “Nothing natural should be that orange.”

A large spoonful disappears between Skye’s lips – she eats like a foster kid, always hungry, a little possessive, finesse losing out to impatience – and shrugs her shoulders. “Carrots,” she offers simply.

Phil smiles. “And oranges.”

Skye laughs at that, bright and young and refreshing. After a moment, Phil laughs too, and then they share a high-five like co-conspirators.

Melinda leaves them to their pasta and goes to grab an apple. In the kitchen she leans her head against the wall and takes a deep breath, and tries to ignore the way the sounds of their voices mingle through the open door.

Xxx

Skye settles into her new room with abandon. Placing her cardboard box of items (treasures, Phil can tell, from the way she holds it tight and won’t let him carry it up the stairs) on the nightstand, she flops down on the still-stiff sheets and breathes in deeply.

“Thanks for getting new ones,” she tells him, punching the pillow with her fists as though to shape it to her specifications. “I’m always worried I’ll catch cooties from sleeping in other kids’ sheets. And some kids pee the bed. Not me though, don’t worry.”

“I appreciate that,” he replies.

She’s small, but her eye roll is one of someone much older. She arches an eyebrow in query, “You want something? Or you just checking I don’t climb out the window? Don’t worry, I’m not a runner. Not from a room as nice as this anyways.”

He shakes his head, stepping towards the door. “Bathroom’s across the hall. And - ”

“I know,” she interrupts, her voice suddenly flat and hard, her face closed off. “Call if I need anything.” Looking up at him, her dark eyes seem clouded and stark. “Not exactly my first time in a new house.”

There’s nothing really to say to that. “I hope you sleep well,” is all he manages, but from her expression, it’s a meaningless balm.

He pulls the door behind him, but leaves it open a crack for the light. Grabbing a sweater from the landing, he’s about to go downstairs when he catches sight of her through the gap. The cardboard box is finally open, and her arms are wrapped around a blue, patchwork dog, who has clearly seen better days. One button eye seems loose and stuffing leaks from his foot. He watches as she clutches the animal, devotedly, to her chest, her eyes closing as she sighs.

He makes sure his footsteps on the stairs are silent. In the sitting room, he finds Melinda curled up on the couch with a book in her lap, but he’s fairly certain she isn’t actually reading. He watches her for almost a full minute, and she doesn’t turn a single page.

Xxx

It’s the end of summer vacation only a week after Skye comes to stay. Phil’s supposed to take her back-to-school shopping, but gets called into work, so it’s up to Melinda. He’s not sure which female looks more unsettled by the prospect.

Melinda takes it on like a military operation. First of all, she goes through Skye’s existing wardrobe and makes a hand-written list of all the things she needs, from underwear (her days of the week pairs are missing Thursday, and Sunday has a hole the size of her thumb in the left buttock), to shirts (she’s been victim of hand-me-downs from other girls in the group home and wrinkles her nose at the pink blouses she’s shoved away in the corner of the closet). She needs sneakers and boots, and a good coat for the cold.

Phil can tell Skye is uncomfortable. He isn’t sure whether it’s the idea of shopping all day with Melinda, or the amount of money they’ll be spending on her, or something he isn’t aware of at all.

“Have fun,” he tells them as they climb into separate cars.

Skye buckles herself in the backseat, her expression as though she’s about to be sent for root canal with no anaesthesia.

Melinda stands in the driveway and leans into his touch as he presses a kiss to her cheek. It’s a small gesture, but speaks volumes to her unease. “It’s just shopping,” he whispers against her hair. “Don’t forget to let her get something fun, after all the stuff she needs.”

She sighs, quiet but deep. “You’re better at this. I’m not made for this.”

It’s a conversation they’ve had before, the words usually sneaking out in the middle of the night, hidden in darkness, but they make his heart hurt in a way that has nothing to do with his arrhythmia. Pulling back, he kisses her on the mouth, and he can feel her hands fisting in his jacket. “Call me if you need me,” he murmurs against her lips.

Suddenly the car horn blares, and from inside the car Skye leans across into the front seat, hand ghosting over the steering wheel. When they turn their heads to look at her, she taps at her wrist; she’s not wearing a watch but the message is clear.

Separating, Melinda climbs into the car, and Phil watches as they pull off the driveway and down the street, disappearing into traffic.

xxx

Even though he had seen the list of all the things Skye needed, Phil is still surprised by the amount of bags that litter the entryway when he gets home from the station. He knows Melinda’s idea of shopping is to find a pair of jeans that fit and buy three pairs, and to find a shirt she likes and get it in black, grey and white, and so he’s a little relieved that when he peeks inside one of the bags, there is a plethora of colour and materials.

It’s quiet when he walks inside, and isn’t surprised that when he turns the corner into the sitting room to find Skye sitting on the couch, chin propped in her palm, eyes fixed on the tv playing low, and Melinda nowhere to be seen.

He finds his wife in the kitchen, chopping vegetables at the counter. Anyone else would think she was concentrating hard on the broccoli in her hands, but he knows her better.

“Tell me you at least talked to her a little.”

Setting down the knife, she shoots him a glare. “She got enough clothes to last. There were back to school deals so we didn’t need all the money Maria sent. I let her choose a new pencil box and notebook for school. Her sneakers light up when she walks. Apparently that’s a good thing.”

Leaning against the counter, he smiles softly. “Sure, who wouldn’t like sneakers that lit up when they walked? I bet they’d be a hit at the station.”

She smiles back for a moment, but it disappears as quickly as it had arrived. “I told her we could get pizza. She said no.”

It seems like something small, but he knows she takes it as a failure.

“Melinda,” he starts, but she just shakes her head and goes back to chopping the broccoli with focus.

“Go see if she wants to show you her clothes,” she says, and he knows she’s finished talking about it. God, how he wants to wrap her up in his arms, but he knows she wouldn’t accept it right now. Pushing her hair behind her shoulder, she stills the knife for a moment. “You know, she talked about you all the way around the mall.”

There’s nothing left for him to say. He goes back into the sitting room, and as predicted, Skye leaps up with excitement at the sight of him. He wishes it made him feel better.

xxx

Skye’s in 4th grade, same as Antoine Triplett Jones next door. He’s a kid who’s defining trait is good, in the most honest sense of the word, and so Phil doesn’t worry about sending Skye off with him to walk the two blocks to the elementary school. They’ve already been in to register her, and she’s met her teacher, and she starts the Fall semester off with a purple wool hat pulled over her hair and a pair of stiff new jeans, rolled up twice at the cuffs. She waves as Phil watches her leave from the front porch.

Melinda is working at the computer when he goes inside. Her face is awash with light from the screen.

“She and Tripp got off okay,” he tells her, his words a gentle prod, a prompt, a hint. He’s hoping for some kind of reaction, but all he gets is a nod. She picks up another file and opens it, and her fingers go back to tapping away at the keys with a quiet but orderly clattering. “Are you sure you’re okay picking her up at the end of the day?”

Her fingers still, just for a beat. “I said I would.”

He looks as though he wants to say something more, but instead, simply reaches out and squeezes her shoulder. “I’ll be back for dinner.”

Her sigh is soft, even in the quiet of the room. She reaches up, touching his hand where it still rests against her skin. “Take care of yourself out there.”

She’s always said those words to him, always sent him off with a message of care and concern, but they have hung heavier between them since his surgery. Since that panicked call from his partner, Nick – _he just collapsed in the middle of the street, I did CPR but_ … - and the flurry of sirens and doctors and medical jargon, the words are always much thicker, much more tangible. He’d been clinically dead for four minutes, after all.

“I will,” he promises. Hands pull away from her, and he straightens his tie; he’s ready for work, Detective Coulson now, rather than her Phil.

She turns back to her computer and he turns for the door, and they separate, though their thoughts remain inevitably on each other.

Xxx

School finishes at half 3, and May arrives promptly ten minutes before. She walks – with the catchment area of the school only a mile in diameter, she’s amazed at how many SUVs are parked on the streets around – and stands back from the seemingly giant crowd of parents that mill around the recess yard.

Bang on the dot the bell rings, and the door opens, spilling children out into waiting arms. Parents call out names to the teachers, echoed overlapping shouts, but they teachers seem used to the cacophony. They wave in acknowledgement before sending the children away with a point in the right direction.

May catches sight of Skye waiting almost patiently in the doorway. Her backpack is slung over one shoulder and she is eyeing the mass of adults with curiosity. Antoine Triplett stands next to her, head and shoulders taller, and what a sentinel that boy is – and scans the crowds himself, tapping Skye’s shoulder and pointing when he finally catches sight of May.

The crowd thins slightly, and May makes her way towards the classroom door. Ms Potts waits, a hand on Skye’s shoulder and a smile on her face. Even after a day in a classroom full of 30 9-year-olds, she looks unflustered and put together; May is impressed.

“Ms Potts,” May greets politely; the two had met on Skye’s induction day before the year started, and she genuinely approves of the other woman.

“Mrs Coulson,” the teacher responds, which still sounds strange to Melinda, because so rarely does she go by that name. “Skye had a great day today.”

The girl in question is busy poking Antoine in the side, beckoning him to give her something in low, inaudible tones, but she’s smiling, so Melinda takes that as a success. “Glad to hear. How was her work?”

Potts doesn’t seem thrown off by the fairly direct question; she’s married to millionaire Tony Stark, who’s a local character and known for being a genius and unfailingly demanding. May assumes that next to him, pre-teens are a breeze. “She’s bright,” Potts assures, though May isn’t particularly looking for assurance, just information. “Her math is very good and she’s a good reader. She’ll need to work on her spellings as we go along, but nothing a little practice won’t help. And she got the sound on the interactive whiteboard working for the first time in a year.” Lowering her voice, Ms Potts looks over at where Skye is now laughing at something Antoine has said, her hand now clutching her purple wool hat. “Will she be here long?”

Tearing her eyes away from the pair, Melinda looks Potts in the face, but finds no judgement there, only curiosity. “Six weeks, probably. Maybe two months at the outside.”

“It’s a shame,” Potts responds with a sad smile. “She’s a lovely girl.”

Melinda doesn’t reply. Instead, she turns her head towards the pair of children. “You ready to go?” she asks. “We’re walking Tripp home too so his grandfather doesn’t have to come out.”

Skye and Tripp both stumble over goodbyes to their class teacher, too busy laughing and poking at each other, Tripp playing keep-away with Skye’s hat as they exit the school. May walks a few paces behind, her eyes on them, watching as they race each other down the sidewalk. Tripp’s faster, but he slows every now and then, not enough that it’s obvious, but just enough to let Skye catch up.

They’re back in their street in ten minutes, and Tripp is waving and calling goodbyes as he bounds up his front steps opens the door, disappearing inside. Finally it is only May and Skye.

“Was school okay?” May asks, reaching into her jacket pocket for her keys.

Skye stands a half a pace behind, nods, and shrugs her shoulders. Her coat is slightly too big and the sleeves hang below her fingertips. “Yeah.”

Pushing the door, May tries again. “You liked your teacher? Your class?”

Nodding, Skye follows her inside, reaching down to untie her sneakers and line them up neatly by the wall. She wiggles her toes inside her socks. “Ms Potts is nice. I like Tripp. Some of the other kids are okay too I guess.” Unzipping her bag, she pulls out her notebook, sorting papers into a semblance of order before handing them over to May. There is a newsletter and a welcome back letter, a curriculum overview, and nothing pertaining to Skye personally. May rolls her eyes and sets the papers down on the dining room table for shredding.

Skye is still standing in the entry hall when Melinda turns around. She is looking between the papers and May, and her nose is wrinkled.

May feels like wringing her hands; she’s clearly done something to bother the girl but she doesn’t know what. “Do you want a snack?” she tries again, offering something, trying to be welcoming, but Skye simply shakes her head.

“No. I’m okay. I’m going to go read. We’ve got Matilda for class and we’re meant to read the first chapter by tomorrow.” Crouching down next to her bag, she pulls out the paperback – it’s a school copy, worn and broken-spined, but Skye holds it carefully, smoothing down the cover.

She feels like she’s probably supposed to say something, but May simply nods, and then watches as the girl takes herself upstairs. She listens for the click of her bedroom door, and the silence, before going back to the dining table and her work.

Xxx

Phil reads with Skye every night. They sit on Skye’s bed after she’s brushed her teeth and combed her hair, and take turns reading pages of Matilda. Skye laughs at the voice he does for Mr Wormwood, and asks question after question about whether it’s possible for a child to have magical powers. At the dining table the next night, they both intensely stare at a fork, trying to make it move, before he kicks the leg of the table, making the fork jump, and they both break into identical delighted laughter.

May picks her up from school most days. She asks Skye questions, and receives simple answers, and then lets Skye and Tripp walk ahead, their words and conversation running a mile a minute.

Tripp’s grandparents take the time to tell May what a sweet girl Skye is. Peggy Carter is still sharp and spry and her husband on her arm has the same wide, bright smile as his grandson. It’s Gabe who reaches out and ruffles Skye’s hair when May goes to pick her up for dinner after a homework/play date with Antoine, and May simply smiles a small smile and shuffles the girl down the front steps.

It’s not that May doesn’t think she’s sweet. Or perhaps she just feels that sweet isn’t the right word. Skye’s small, but full of energy and determination, and doesn’t seem to fear much. She’s already scaled the tallest tree in the Bartons’ backyard, crowing at Tripp from the top, and races around the neighbourhood balanced on the crossbar of his bmx as he pedals, screaming with delight.

And she makes Phil smile. And laugh. The two of them like watching the same old movies on Saturday afternoons, black and white affairs from the 40s and 50s with well-suited men and the women who adore and banter with them. Piled on the couch with a bowl of popcorn between them and with her tiny feet propped next to his large ones on the coffee table, they’re like a screwball comedy themselves.

Melinda thinks she should feel more left out. Sometimes she does. But sometimes she is just relieved that Skye doesn’t seem to expect much from her, because she’s not honestly sure she has it in her to give. She’s not parental, like Phil is. When the two of them watch films and laugh over the jokes, she reads in the other armchair, or heads out to work in the garden.

Four weeks have passed with Skye in the house when May wakes up at 5, as usual, and heads down to the sitting room to do her morning workout. It’s Saturday, so she knows she has plenty of time. Phil won’t be awake for hours.

She likes this time of the morning; the sun is still pale and weak, and everything is quiet and still. Even the birds are only gently waking. May has just begun the first few forms of tai chi, eyes closed and breathing deep and even, when she hears the gentle, tiny creek of a floorboard.

She doesn’t open her eyes straight away; she can hear Skye’s breaths from the end of the couch, and she is happy to wait. She goes through a few more forms before finally cracking an eyelid and asking, “Couldn’t sleep?”

Skye seems surprised that May knows she’s there; she rises on her knees and peeks over the arm of the sofa. “Dreams,” she answers simply. “What are you doing?”

May lets her arms stretch, shifting her body into a different position, feeling the stretch of her muscles as they travel through the familiar forms. “Tai chi,” she explains. “I do it every morning between 5 and 6.”

Climbing over the arm, Skye curls up in the corner, clutching a pillow to her chest. She’s still wearing her pyjamas, so her body is littered with white and silver stars on a pale blue background. “Every morning?” she repeats, her tone incredulous. “Do you hate sleeping or something?”

May considers ignoring the question, but instead just stills her movements for a beat, looks Skye square in the face, and answers honestly. “Dreams.”

A look of understanding takes over Skye’s expression. May expects her to move, to go back upstairs or turn on the tv, but instead she just lays down on the sofa and watches carefully as May continues her Tai Chi. By the time 6am rolls around, and May finishes, Skye has fallen back into a doze with her face pillowed on the cushion and her hair falling over her cheek.

May thinks she should probably wake her up, but instead just takes a blanket from the wooden box in the corner and drapes it over the small girl before heading upstairs to the shower.

Maybe she’ll make pancakes, she thinks. She might even have some chocolate chips in the cupboard somewhere.

Xxx

It’s a week into October when Skye comes home with ashen skin, her eyes shadowy and her movements sluggish. She sits in front of the tv in silence, then pushes her food around on her plate without eating more than a few bites.

Phil’s at a conference. May thinks he could probably make Skye feel better with the right smile and maybe an arm around her shoulders, but without him here, she just feels lost. She lets Skye down from the table, suggesting she goes up to bed early, and the little girl just nods her head miserably.

When May goes up to check on her, Skye’s already buried under the covers, her blue dog held in her arms. May can tell she’s feeling terrible because she doesn’t even attempt to hide the well-loved – and up to this point well hidden – animal.

She brings the little girl a glass of water, places it on her nightstand, and then checks the curtains are properly drawn before turning off the light. “Sleep well,” she offers lamely, though Skye’s cheeks are rosy and her lips down turned. She coughs once, twice, and buries her head in the pillow.

May’s just getting ready for bed herself, a few hours later, when she is disturbed by the sound of crying. It’s like a punch to the stomach – harsh, desperate sobbing – and has her rushing down the hall before she’s even thought about responding.

When she opens Skye’s bedroom door it’s to find the little girl bending over the side of the bed, a fresh puddle of vomit on the floor next to her. Her hair is damp and her face is a muddle of tears and sweat. May moves into the room, reaching out to touch the little girl’s cheek – it’s burning against her palm, and when Skye tilts her head towards May’s touch, her eyes are glassy.

She mumbles incoherently; May thinks she can make out an apology and words of pleading, but she just strokes back Skye’s hair and tries to ignore the panic rising in her gut.

“It’s okay,” she tells the little girl, trying to figure out what to do.

Skye just looks miserable, and then turns grey before leaning over and vomiting again. Her back muscles clench and strain under May’s fingers.

She knows the most important thing is getting Skye’s temperature down. She doesn’t have a thermometer, but just her palm against the skin she can tell Skye’s fever is over 100.

Melinda wants to call Natasha who lives across the street, because she has two kids, she must know what to do in these situations, but it’s after midnight and the baby is only just sleeping through the night, and Clint won’t hear the phone anyways without his hearing aids. She can’t do that to them. Equally, she’s sure Peggy and Gabe would know what to do with a fever, but she doesn’t want to wake them either.

So instead, she slides her arms under Skye’s body and picks the girl up, cradling her against her chest. Skye whimpers, burying her face in May’s neck, and begins speaking in that broken, bubbling way again.

“I didn’t mean to,” she hiccups a sob. “Please, please, don’t. I don’t want to go.”

May opens the bathroom door with her shoulder, and manages to pull the cord down so the light turns on. It seems unnaturally bright, and makes Skye sob again as May sets her down on her feet. The little girl wobbles, her legs barely able to hold her, and May grips her shoulders carefully until she seems more stable. Then she puts the plug in the bath and sets the taps to running before helping Skye off with her sweat-dampened pyjamas. Skye is still crying, murmuring broken, nonsensical apologies, and it makes May’s heart break as she helps her into the tub.

The water is lukewarm but sets goosebumps across Skye’s body. May picks up the washcloth and gently smoothes it over the girl’s arms and neck, and then wipes her hair back from her sweaty, tear-damp cheeks. Skye seems to relax, a little. The sobs stop, fading into hiccups, and she lets her head rest on the smooth side of the bathtub.

“I won’t do it again,” she promises, though her eyes are still glassy and May is fairly certain she has no idea what she’s saying.

“Okay,” May agrees, wiping her forehead with the washcloth again. “It’s okay.”

They stay in the bathroom long enough that Melinda’s legs go dead from kneeling on the floor next to the tub, her feet frozen, and Skye’s cheeks feel cooler to the touch. May’s pretty sure hours have passed when Skye’s eyelashes flutter against her cheeks. “Out?” she asks, and it’s the first thing she’s said all night that makes sense.

Reaching across to the counter for one of the large bath sheets, May helps Skye to stand, and wraps it around her shoulders before lifting her out of the bathtub. Water drips down her arms and legs, pattering onto the smooth tiles, and her hair hangs damp and clingy against her shoulders.

Melinda knows she can’t take Skye back to her own room – there’s still vomit on the floor and the sheets are dirty with sweat. So instead, she picks the little girl up and carries her down the hall into the big bedroom at the end, the bedroom she shares with Phil, and places her down on the bed. One of Phil’s old t-shirt suffices in place of pyjamas, and May hums softly as she combs through the little girl’s hair with her fingers, separating it into strands and carefully braiding it down her back.

Skye falls asleep in the middle of the bed before May’s even tied the elastic at the end of the braid. Carefully, gently, she lifts the little girl’s legs and tucks them under the covers, and leans her head back, listening to the sound of Skye’s gentle breathing.

When Phil comes home the next morning, they are both sound asleep. Skye’s head rests against May’s side, their bodies curled around one another.

Phil thinks about waking them, but instead simply goes into Skye’s bedroom, picks up her blue dog, and tucks it between the two before kicking off his shoes and climbing in behind his wife.

Xxx

Skye stays home from school for four days. By the fourth, she’s still pale, but bored out of her mind and bouncing around the sitting room. Doctor Banner had made a special visit to their house and diagnosed her with an ear infection, which had caused the fever and the nausea. He had then given her antibiotics along with a sucker, the latter making her grin from ear to ear even though she had still been weak and exhausted.

Phil takes time off from work to help Melinda take care of her; he knows she found Skye’s sudden illness unsettling and he wants to be able to support them both through. Luckily, Phil has been a detective for a long enough time, and given enough of his life to the force that no one questions him taking family time. He’d come back to work barely a month after his heart surgery after all.

They watch a movie together – Paper Moon, her choice – and start reading The Secret Garden from the randomly stocked bookshelves in her room. She falls asleep half way through the third chapter, her dog (he has a name, Phil and May finally learn – Seven – because she had only just learned her numbers when she got him and seven had been her favourite), held tight in her arms. When she wakes up again, she wants to help cook, and so Melinda lets her chop the tomatoes and scallions for the sauce. She stands on a stool so she can reach the counter and talks to the tomatoes as she cuts them, singing a silly little song about their journey from the garden to the meal they’re making, causing May to smile.

Tripp comes round after school, bringing her spellings and times tables from Ms Potts so she can practice before their tests next week. He stays to eat spaghetti (running home quickly to ask if that’s okay, and back again within two minutes, grinning broadly with his grandparents’ acceptance) and afterwards they settle down on the sitting room floor and play three rounds of chutes and ladders before Skye is yawning again.

Petting her hair in a way that makes her grumble and swat at his hand, Tripp laughs broadly and makes his goodbyes.

“I’ll be back to school tomorrow!” she promises him. “Come and get me before you go.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grandma May comes to stay and steps are taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set chronologically after the first chapter and before the side story 'You're Still Young'. Just a little fluffy family-building interlude that I hope you enjoy. Finally have time again to write so may add more odds and ends to this story as I get them done!

Skye’s tongue is poking out one side of her mouth as she folds the cheap white napkins, looking carefully between the paper in her hand and the ipad screen in front of her. She’s been practicing for the better part of an hour as May has been cleaning the kitchen, the scent of bleach and lemon wafting through the open door. 

“I’ve almost got it,” Skye calls out as she tucks and twists and then curses when the structure falls apart again. “Ah shit.”

“Skye,” May’s tone is warning – Skye’s vocabulary has some choice additions from her years in group homes and foster homes, and it’s something they’ve all sat down and discussed as being inappropriate (not helped, of course, by driving with Phil in rush hour or listening to Clint Barton trying to wrangle two kids and a dog at the same time). May knows Skye’s been working hard to reign it in, but certain words sneak out on occasions. Wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, she watches as Skye stares at the screen, studying the video again and trying to make her movements in tandem. Finally, after a minute, the little girl has created a lop-sided, slightly befuddled looking paper turkey, and holds it up with glee. 

Skye’s grin is broad and proud, “Can I do them for Thanksgiving? Please?”

Though she is normally particular – and minimal – about what goes on her Holiday table, May nods her head. How could she say no after all of Skye’s practice? “Of course,” she agrees. “But you need to put the tablet and things away now so I can straighten up in here.”

Moving her finished turkey to the sideboard so she can show Phil when he gets home, Skye takes the tablet and puts it away in the drawer before putting the practice napkins away in the kitchen. Everything is bright and gleaming and organised, and even though May is always precise and thorough in her tidying, Skye can tell she has gone to special effort. “What time is your Mom coming?” she asks, feeling May come up behind her as she slides the drawer closed.

Checking the clock on the wall, May touches Skye’s shoulder fleetingly. “Phil is finishing early and picking her up at the airport. They should be home for dinner.”

Skye watches as May moves into the kitchen, beginning to pull ingredients from the refrigerator and set them in an apparent sequence on the gleaming countertop. With a bounce jump, she pulls herself up to sit at the very edge, which gains a look from May but no reprimand. Skye can tell by the way May begins to chop – slightly too noisy with the knife, slightly too measured – that she has feelings about her mother’s arrival. But Skye doesn’t know much about mothers and daughters, so she just watches, and tells May all the fruit and vegetable jokes she knows. 

When May finally laughs at the punchline about a chickpea, Skye feels happiness well up inside her, and when she’s able to share a smile with May, even her toes tingle with pride.

*

Lian May is a small woman with a severe looking face and long turquoise scarf that she hands off to her daughter as she enters their home. Melinda hangs it carefully on the coat rack, and Skye watches as the older woman studies her daughter with a critical eye, throwing out words in a language that she doesn’t understand. May answers back in the same before bending down and allowing her mother to kiss her cheek.

Though she isn’t usually shy, Skye finds herself edging closer to Phil as Lian turns to look her way. She is unerringly grateful when she feels his warm hand on her back, firm between her shoulder blades. Steadying.

Lian speaks to her first in the same confusing, unfamiliar language, but May shakes her head. “Mama, she only speaks English.”

“She’s Chinese,” Lian argues, but Skye is just happy she has switched to English so she knows what they’re arguing about. “Maria told me.”

Skye is momentarily taken aback by both the idea that Mrs May knows Maria, and also by the idea that they’ve been talking about her. She isn’t sure whether to feel worried or not. She worries that Lian May thinks she is somehow not worthy of the home she’s found, or shouldn’t be allowed to stay with Phil and May, that she should – with every haste - be sent back to St Agnes. 

Skye is beginning to catalogue all of the things Maria might have told her when her tumbling thoughts are interrupted. “She was raised here.” It’s Phil that interjects now, and Skye is only a little surprised by the firm but placatory tone in his voice. “Skye, this is Melinda’s mother, Lian.”

Skye tries to smile, to say hello, but Lian’s eyes are studying her so intently that nerves overtake her. Her voice falters and all she can do is wiggle her fingers in a semblance of a wave. She has to force herself not to stare at her green sock-clad toes.

Finally, the silence is broken. “A beautiful girl,” Lian announces, and Skye is amazed to see her face blossom into a broad, bright smile. She suddenly seems much less fierce. “I am very pleased to meet you, wài sūnnǚ.”

Skye doesn’t know what the words mean, but Lian’s tone is soft, and a subtle pink blush spreads up May’s cheeks, so Skye assumes it’s complimentary. Being called beautiful also makes her relax a little. “Nice to meet you, Mrs May,” she manages, on her very best manners, but the older woman tsks her tongue against her teeth. 

Holding out her rough-skin but well-manicured hand and taking Skye’s in her own, she offers, conspiringly, “Please, you call me Grandma Lian. Now come sit with me and tell me all about what you like to do.”

Leaving bags in the hall, the two head into the living room, chatting like old friends, leaving a bemused May and amused Phil in their wake. 

*  
The fair is insanely busy. They’ve already seen three kids from Skye’s class, Mack who works at the hardware store, Thor and Sif from the bakery, and the Bartons (Clint with Katya high up on his shoulders and Alex with a giant stuffed elephant held gleefully in his arms and Natasha rolling her eyes because just because you can win every game at the fair doesn’t mean you should). Everywhere is a cacophony of laughter and screaming and clunking rides and electronic game noises. Skye’s eyes have been huge and round as pennies ever since she’d arrived, taking everything in, and she’d dragged them from game to game, stall to stall, no one able to argue with her innocent enthusiasm. 

“I can’t believe Tripp is missing this!” she crows as she tosses ping pong balls towards a target, trying to win a bright pink lion. She doesn’t win the top prize, but walks away with two glow-stick bangles that light up her wrist. “California better be good or he’s going to be so jealous!”

(Tripp and his grandparents were spending the long Holiday weekend with an old friend of his Grandmother’s – stage and screen darling Angie Martinelli – in California. In truth, Skye’d been envious of what he’d told her – the house had a pool and was near the beach and was bigger than anything she’d ever seen. Also Angie had two dogs called Holly and Woody who would lick your face and dance for treats. He’d sent photos).

They trail their way through the hall of mirrors making faces in the glass, and have just passed by the fortune telling tent when Skye begs Phil to go on the Ferris wheel with her. She tugs at his hand, her lips pouting and pleading, “Please, please, can we? Look, we can sit in the red, white and blue car – like Captain America! Please, I promise I won’t even ask for anything else – not cotton candy or funnel cake or anything.” 

Phil gives in easily, prompting a quirk of a smile from Melinda, and the two race off to the queue with barely a backwards wave. 

A chuckle from next to them draws the attention of Lian and Melinda, who turn to an older woman with upswept white hair and an arm full of jackets. “She’ll sleep well tonight,” the woman comments with a nod towards Skye and Phil’s disappearing backs, looking at the two women with a broad, knowing smile. “I remember my granddaughters at her age. Would fall asleep before making it out of the parking lot, once they stopped.” 

The conversation is interrupted by the sound of their names being called from above, and Skye’s frantic waving as she and Phil began to ascend with a squeak of laughter as she grips the handlebar, Phil’s arm wrapped around her shoulders.

“Doesn’t she just have her father’s smile?” the other lady comments as she watches them rise into the air, looking at May and Lian fondly. “But just like you otherwise – such a pretty thing!”

Melinda’s stomach twists and she can feel her cheeks heat. “Actually -” she begins, her voice soft, but is cut off by her mother.

“Yes, thank you, she is a lovely girl. We’re very proud of her,” she answers, her voice just a touch louder than it needs to be, brokering no argument from her daughter. Melinda just stands next to her, dumbfounded, and is relieved when the other woman’s family reappears, and she disappears away into the throng.

Turning to her mother, she raises her eyebrows. “Why would you?” she asks in quick-fire Mandarin, unable to even speak the full sentence. She isn’t sure whether she feels angry, or hurt, or confused, but something makes her stomach turn and a pain shoot between her eyes. “She’s not – you know she’s not staying. Why are you making things confusing?”

Lips pursed, Lian shoots back just as bluntly, “Why are you?”

The two woman stand staring for a beat before Lian lays a hand on her daughter’s arm, and leads her to a miraculously empty bench against the railings. From their seats, they can see the Ferris wheel loom above them in the just-turning-sunset sky, and they sit, side by side, Lian’s hand firmly on Melinda’s knee. “Skye is a beautiful, kind, spirited girl.”

“Mama - ” Melinda begins, argument on her tongue, but a single raised hand from her mother stops her words.

“More, she is a little girl who needs a home and a family. A mother. You and Philip have that big house, and big hearts. You always talked about children, when you got married. I know it is what you wanted. Melinda - ” Reaching up, she cups her daughter’s cheek in her hand, and Melinda can breathe in the familiar scents of lavender and ginseng that make her feel almost like a child again. “The accident was almost six years ago,” her mother says softly. “I know what you lost, but it shouldn’t stop you from being happy now.”

The two of them sit for a long beat, eyes trained upwards as Phil rocks the carriage, making Skye scream with delight as she grasps his arm, pointing at something far across the crowds. “They’ve got a home planned for her in a month or so,” Melinda counters weakly. “We’re short term fosterers, you know that.”

“Because that is what you chose,” Lian answers firmly. “I know Maria – if you call and say you want Skye to stay she would move heaven and Earth to make that happen for you.” Softening, Lian reaches out, lacing her fingers with her daughter’s. “I am not a person to believe in fairy-tales and baseless wishes,” she begins. “But after everything you have been through, the universe has sent you a daughter – even a half-Chinese daughter – and given you a chance to make your own family. You have the choice, Melinda.”

Melinda doesn’t get to answer. Before she can speak, her arms are full of wind-swept hair and sticky, sugary lips laughing and babbling about the view she could see from the top. As she straightens Skye’s purple hat on her head, Melinda can feel her mother’s eyes on her. 

As they stand from the bench, Phil’s arm slides around her waist. “Everything okay?”

She doesn’t speak, but nods, and allows him a brief cotton-candy flavoured kiss before following Skye into the crowds. 

*

Around the Thanksgiving table, they all hold hands, and May can’t take her eyes from the carefully-folded, loveably crooked napkin turkey before her. 

“I’m thankful for second chances.”

*


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skye has an important birthday and we meet the science babies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's little and sappy but I hope you enjoy. This is kind of my guilty pleasure fic that I go to when I just want a happy place so it is what it is. 
> 
> Thanks always to my bestest. 
> 
> Also to Kiara_Fox whose comment made me realise I hadn't actually posted this part to the story!

****

The tent is borrowed from Steve and Darcy across the street, and set up by the man himself and his best-friend-turned-lodger Bucky, whose main job seems to be to tell Steve what he is doing wrong and laugh himself silly when the canvass collapses on top of Steve’s head. He claims he can’t help, not with his one arm, but eventually gives in to Steve’s cursing and Skye’s big, pleading eyes, and with his help the tent is up and standing strong in a matter of minutes. “Don’t send a boy scout to do a soldier’s job,” he teases, shoving Steve with his bad shoulder, and Steve almost shoots back some choice words before remembering the small girl in their midst. 

“Jerk,” he offers instead, making Bucky snort and grin.

“Punk.”

It doesn’t really matter which words they use because at that moment Skye is flopped down inside the tent on the bare ground cover, staring up at the green canvas and the sunshine casting shadows on the material. “This is going to be so great,” she grins, rolling up so she is sitting cross-legged. “Thanks guys. We’re going to have the best party.”

Bucky drops to his knees and crawls inside. He’s been in a lot of tents before but not many large or as nice as this one. Certainly very few in such a safe location as the Coulson backyard. “So, double digits huh?” he offers, pulling a piece of gum out of his pocket and putting it between his lips. It’s a poor substitute for a cigarette, but he’s sick of having to huddle out on the porch every time he wants a smoke, so he’s trying to take the doctor’s advice and quit. “Pretty big birthday.”

“I know,” Skye grins at him. “It’s why Phil and May said I could have a camp out. I’m gonna be in fifth grade after break. And Ms Potts is still going to be my teacher because she’s moving up to fifth grade with us.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve asks, scooting in, pulling his long legs to sit cross-legged in a way that looks ridiculously uncomfortable and makes him look far too large for even the four-man tent. “That’s lucky.”

Skye kneels up, looking out the small lattice window at the back of the tent. “Yeah. She’s getting married over the summer but she says she’s still gonna be Ms Potts not Mrs Stark so we don’t have to get used to a different name or anything.”

Neither man truly have a reply to that, so Steve just clears his throat. “What time are your friends coming over?”

Leaning over, Skye grabs Bucky’s arm and twists it to look at his wrist watch. She barely remembers now what it was like to be nervous around him. “They’re coming at 5,” she tells the two men. “May said we can order a pizza and eat it out here, and Phil’s bringing my cake back when he comes in from work. Thor and Sif are making it.” 

She’s about to say more when the backdoor opens, and May leans out. “Skye?” she calls, gently, but it’s enough to have the young girl crawl to the entrance of the tent, and pop her head out. 

“Yeah?”

May’s smile is small, but amused, partly at the sight of all three of them smushed in together, and partly at the way Skye’s hair sticks up with static from the canvas. “You need to come inside and get things tidied away for when Tripp, Leo and Jemma come over. Say thank you to Steve and James.”

Skye’s hugs are quick and fleeting and neither man really has time to process the flurry of warmth before it is gone. Skye calls over her shoulder as she darts inside, her grass-stained knees and bare feet the last things disappearing through the door. “Thanks Steve, thanks Bucky. You guys rock.”

For a moment the two men lay back and look up at the ceiling. “You remember being ten, Buck?” Steve asks, his voice quiet and reflective in the confines of the tent. 

Bucky just snorts. “Sure. The nuns took us to Coney Island. You threw up on my shoes. I had to go the whole ride home with grocery bags tied round my feet.”

They don’t realise May is still standing at the door, and she watches with a small smile at the sight of two pairs of feet sticking out of the tent, shaking with laughter.

*

Tripp arrives at the front door with his hands empty, save a carefully wrapped present. “I already tossed my bag over the back fence,” he explains simply with a jab of his thumb. “It’s next to the tent.” 

He’s been ten for almost five months – and lording it over her – so Skye is glad to finally be catching up, even if he does still tower over her. Taking the present from his hands, she flings her arms around his neck, pulling him into a bone crushing hug. “Thanks Tripp,” she says softly, and her breathy words tickle his ear, making him laugh and squirm against her. She drags him into the house, not even bothering to call to May and Phil that he is there – they are as used to Tripp’s presence in the house as they are Skye’s, and his grandparents are just as welcoming of her in their home. 

“Come on, girl, open your present,” he grins, his teeth bright and white and straight and man he needs to stop growing because he’s nearly as tall as May now.

She just punches him in the arm and shakes her head. “Not til Jemma and Fitz are here,” she counters. “I’ll open them then.”

He acquiesces – because Tripp is nothing if not agreeable – and the two of them go out into the backyard and pull things out of his backpack, setting his sleeping bag up next to hers. He’s also brought two torches and a small battery stereo in case they want to listen to music later. “I bring the noise wherever I go,” he teases.

They are just crawling out of the tent when they hear Phil’s voice calling – her friends have arrived and are waiting – and then it’s a race to see who can get through the house and to the front door faster. 

Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons are strange in a number of ways. First of all, they are both British, though Fitz would specify he’s Scottish, which makes them stand out in their Elementary school enough. Secondly, even though they are nearly in fifth grade, both have just turned nine, making them a year younger than everyone else. When they’d arrived in Ms Potts’ class – too young and too smart and too foreign – some of the other children had not been exactly welcoming. Jemma had been Hermione for the first three weeks (which Skye felt was hardly an insult) and some of the boys had turned their nose up at Fitz for having no interest in football.

(He of course insisted it was ridiculous to call it football if it wasn’t played with your feet, and that clearly the other boys were stupid if they didn’t realise that. Which, naturally, had not won him any further popularity.)

So the two had stuck together, and even though Fitz came across as grumpy, Skye could see Jemma was desperate to make friends. She also remembered what being new was like, and so had invited to two of them to sit with her and Tripp at lunch. Finding out, over paper-bag sandwiches, that Fitz just lived with his mom and Jemma with her Uncle and Aunt, Skye had felt an instant affinity with the two. 

Which of course, is what brings them to her front door, backpacks on backs and a stripy pillow clutched between Jemma’s arms. “Memory foam,” she explains. “Better for upper lumbar support.”

They are weird, and they are geeks, but Skye grins. They are her geeks after all. 

Jemma’s Aunt Bobbi – who is also Skye’s karate instructor, and wasn’t that just a strange coincidence when they found that out? – kisses the top of Jemma’s head. “Have fun,” she tells her, “Be good for Mr and Mrs Coulson.”

Her Uncle Lance ruffles her hair and pats Fitz on the shoulder. “We’ll come pick you up in the morning. But you can give us a ring if you need anything.” This instruction is said half to the two children, and half to Phil who stands a step behind Skye in the hallway. He nods in understanding and the two men shake hands before Jemma’s Aunt and Uncle leave, waving from the car as they go.

They all pile into the tent, and within minutes of unpacking, Fitz has strung up fairy lights around the inside poles, which leave a pleasant, gentle glow. “I can dim them,” he says, holding up a remote control which he has just pulled out of his pocket. Then, digging around in his other pocket, he hands Skye a small, slightly crumpled, clearly self-wrapped package. “Oh, this is, um, for you. Happy birthday.”

The present Jemma pulls out of her bag is perfectly wrapped with polka-dot shiny paper and a corresponding ribbon. “Happy birthday!” she echoes with a grin. “Thanks for inviting us.” 

The early evening is spent in the garden, and they have fun trying to build their own campfire out of leaves and pieces of wood. Fitz rubs pieces of wood together until he gets a splinter, which Jemma pulls out with a pair of tweezers she digs out of her bag (and Tripp teases that she has everything for a four-month expedition in there). 

When the pizza arrives they sit on the grass in the last rays of sun and are quiet for the first time that evening, busy chewing on tomato and stringy cheese. Fitz manages four slices and even the half that Jemma can’t finish, and then pulls a magnifying class out of his pocket so he and Skye can watch a tiny cavalcade of ants carry the last crumbs away across the grass. 

She opens presents inside around the dining table, sitting in front of her white buttercream daisy-covered cake. Phil and May get her a set of books about earthquakes and volcanoes, a new pair of black boots, and marker pens. Jemma’s present is a book and CD on native birds and bird calls – she excitedly shows Skye the pictures and Skye says she and Tripp can update their whistle-code with something more advanced. Jemma beams. Tripp gets her transfers to stick on her bike – the ones she had admired in the store – and a thin leather bangle with her new initials – SC – stamped on that she slaps on her wrist immediately. Leo’s gift – the small, crumpled package – turns out to be a set of different small screwdrivers. “For working on your computer,” he explains with a shrug, but Skye is touched – she’d only mentioned adding memory and reprogramming the old laptop Phil had given her in passing one recess. She thinks it’s sweet he remembers. 

After cake it’s late, and so they all take turns changing into their pyjamas and brushing their teeth. Skye and Jemma giggle in her room as May braids their hair for them, tidy and away from sugar-glazed faces. When they get back downstairs, Phil and the boys are laying out the sleeping bags.

“If you’re too close to the edge you’ll get wet,” Fitz explains as he hauls the sleeping bags in closer to the middle, putting the backpacks along the walls. 

 

They all snuggle down, bodies wedged together and wriggling around on the spare blankets beneath them, cushioning the ground, and echo their goodnights to Phil and May. 

“The back door will be open,” May assures them, “so you can go to the bathroom and come inside if you need anything.”

“Have fun,” Phil adds, before zipping them up inside. 

The four kids listen as the adult footsteps disappear across the grass and the sliding door closes. Tripp fiddles with his radio until music is playing softly above his head. He wriggles until Skye’s elbow isn’t jammed in his side and her head is near his shoulder instead. They both stare up at the canvas ceiling. “For a first birthday party, this one is the best,” she whispers into his arm, and he isn’t sure that the words are even really for him. 

They are all silent for a long time, just listening to the quiet music and the sounds of the garden outside. Skye rests her pillow against Tripp and lets herself study her friends. Jemma is already yawning, eyes fluttering closed and sleeping bag pulled over her Tardis-pyjama-clad shoulders, curled up on her side. Fitz is lying straight as a board, his back to Jemma but their feet touching. Skye’s pretty sure she can hear him mumbling about electrons, so she thinks maybe he is close to sleep as well.

Tripp has his arms crossed behind his head, Skye tucked against his side, and though his eyes are open his blinks are getting longer and his breathing is deep and slow. Unable to stop a smile from gracing her lips, Skye lets her own eyes close, and falls asleep to the sound of the wind rustling the leaves of the tree, and her three best friends dreaming beside her. 

*


End file.
